


Oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?

by Sinsrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, King of Hell Dean, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavily based off an au that was created based off the original plans that Supernatural writers had.  Events after season two have been heavily altered, and in season three, dean was raised from hell by Sam. Elements after season five have been completely changed, and some events never happened to the brothers. This is my take on demon dean from my roleplay account, and more info about him can be found under here.</p><p>http://evidentem.tumblr.com/mvs</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

   It’s an addiction that reaches further than just physical contact. Further than just blood. Further than flesh and bone, it’s a type of addiction that leaves you gasping at three am. It leaves your lungs burning and shaking with every breath. It’s a reminder, an ach that you need it to survive. That the blood in your veins isn’t just blackened by your own soul but blackened by the choices you have made. You became this for your brother. You became this devil, you became this demon. All for him. And it burns, it burns your very existence when that crown of thorns is placed upon your head.

   It’s a physical weight. A reminder that all is not ‘golden’, that he is gone. That the angels are the echoed remains of yesterday. That the touches, the burning trail across the skin is gone. That the reminder that you are alive inside is gone. The way that you fell between the sheets with him with the most primal impulses is gone. _Gone gone gone._  That you remain alive and well, fingers pressing the amulet with horns across your fingertips. It should have remained in that _trash_ can but you can’t will yourself to throw it out now. 

       Not after the amount of blood you saw. Not after the way that his fingers danced across your flesh in the best and worst ways. The way that he had brought you to your knees over and over, the humanity still remaining in your blackened soul. Enough for him. Always enough for Sam. But now it’s starting to dissolve, it’s left you. It’s gone, it died. It died the moment you started screaming your brother’s name when the demons had slaughtered him. You’re a broken king. You never wanted to be alone.

              _You can barely do this with me-  
                                                   I can’t do this without you._

It’s an echo really, the silence of your thoughts. The way that hunger pools within you, never really leaving you. Never really letting you go. Never really being filled. The bloodlust that has settled within for blood, the way that it suffocates and consumes. It never really left you. Your footsteps that are nothing more than a shadow on the ground stepping.  A quiet weight settled within your bones, a settled fragmented weight of loss and _heartbreak_. The broken paradise you once called home. It had been a home at one time. 

But it remained cold, cold like it had been when-

   He swallows. The sickening feeling on his tongue. The way that the addiction of the blood runs hot. It’s a reminder, that no demon’s blood can sate him the same way that his brother’s did. He hasn’t drunk from veins in months, he is unable to quench the burning on his tongue. It’s going to kill him. The longer the wait, the more human he becomes. The more that blurs between reality and dreaming. It’s an unhealthy paradox that makes him see muddled shades of gray with flecks of color. 

Color that had long since been drained from your eyes. But that isn’t the case is it? Emerald flecks are more and more visible with every drink not take. Every passing of day that blood does not pass through your lips. The settled remains that is the body and soul, conflicted with the grief of a passing. Something inside you died and broke. Something that was human living within. It’s a twisted mix of grief anger and pain that lingers within you. The way that he settles among his demon counterparts, but not exactly a horned king. Even if he wears a crown made for one. He has to remember that he is king, but he doesn’t want the crown. He wasn’t made to _rule_. 

            He sinks down to his knees. The onslaught of another hallucination evident. The way that his body tenses, and the way that his fingers dig into the wall that’s near him. The way that he closes his eyes, trying to reject. Trying to ignore the taint in his bones. Because this isn’t the blood he wants. He needs- he needs. 

          _Sam why did you have to die?_

           Fingers dig into the wall, his body shaking with effort to remain on his knees. Eyes blurring that of reality and dreaming. The way that fingers touch upon his shoulder and the touch leaves him falling backwards against the wall. Green eyes staring into eyes that leave him startled, and in anguish. Body almost at the point of convulsing from the way the detox is wreaking havoc on his system.  

                            “I never left. Dean, I’m okay.”---

                    _Lies, lies, lies_. I saw the blood- I saw.

Pressure on his frame. Real solid pressure. Fingers against it, settled across his bones. Settled, the steady weight. The blood beneath it. Dean exhales, he can feel his own heart rattling in his stomach. The demon king has fallen so low, he’s almost human.  The heat it’s real and jarring and it burns, it burns, it feels like it’s burning his flesh. 

  _You’re dead. You’re dead.  
                     This is just a dream._

  “De?”  
              He closes his eyes again. The sound of his brother’s voice hurts. It sounds almost foreign to him after a clear month or was it months of detoxing. He feels numb- he feels angry, he feels everything and nothing. Everything is a confused thing in his body, his emotions are strung up and fried, and they’re ripping him into pieces. He, none of this can be real. He saw the blood he saw his _brother_ die.

_You aren’t real. This isn’t real.  
                         It’s just the detox._

But he can smell the blood. He can smell the scent of his brother. Dean can feel how close he is to him. He can feel the way that Sam’s fingers press into him, leaving the imprint on him. Leave the same marks that he used to leave. Leave everything that he considered a home, and when hell wasn’t burning cold. Hell is still burning cold.  

  But he can feel everything and it can’t be a dream. Fingers pressing into his flesh once more as if to prove the fact they’re real. That that warm touch is real. That the touch isn’t just some memory that it isn’t just some ghost of the past. Lips that press across the skin, in the right places on his neck. The places that make him tilt his head to the side, an exhale leaving his lips.

        “That’s it, that’s the Dean I know.”

 The touch is real. He’s real. Sam’s real. His body is screaming at him to believe. For the elder Winchester to stop thinking that it is a detox, for him to let the other in. For him to let the blood pass his lips. If only he knew. If only he knew. He’s dancing with the devil, literally. He has to swallow back a noise that almost escapes him. Almost. Fingers from his own hand, pulling Sam to him. Feeling the way that their foreheads meet. And it feels like home. If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up. 

                  “You need this, De.” 

      We need this. Sam’s fingers are fluid, and it’s almost unreal when the maroon flashes across the skin. Almost unreal when crimson drips across the flesh. Stains the skin leaving a bloody imprint, leaving one that seems almost surreal and sends his body into a frenzy for fresh blood. For demon blood- for the only poison that he loves to suck down. The blood that is his own flesh, the blood that is his brother’s. But in reality it’s not. The moment that the wrist presses to his lips, he’s doomed. 

      It’s not just the burning from the detox that consumes his bones. No, that process can be countered from the simple sip of blood. The process beginning anew is another one, one that’s much more painful and almost poison to demons if done correctly. But this, this is playing the game of blurring lines of reality and dreams. It’s corrupt and wrong, but the angel really doesn’t care. He’s only cared for his vessel’s safety. He’s sinking under the corruption of an angel. 

   All that matters to him, that this is his brother. He’s too blinded in his own pain to realize. To care, he’s too broken to realize that his brother really shouldn’t be alive. He’s sinking, and falling deeper under. The way that he’s fallen, the way that he’s gone under, is so human. The way that his finger’s dig into his brother’s wrist, teeth catching on the skin to grip tighter to the open veins to suck. The blood burns, everything burns within him. But he can feel Sam’s fingers soothing through his hair, he can feel the way that it makes his entire frame settle against him. 

_Checkmate. Dean.  
           You’re mine for the keeping. _

                                             The world burns, slow when lips are pressed against his, the taint of blood stripped from his lips. Stripped, and pulled under. The way that fingers touch across skin, the way that lips move to mar and bite after the wake of the blood being consumed. The way that he falls deeper into the corruption of an angel. The way that Lucifer weaves a spell. One that leaves him without the questions, leaves him not asking if this is really Sam. He plays Dean like it’s nothing. He plays him, uses everything against him.  


                 And Dean sinks beneath him. Let’s out these noises only his brother know. Let’s out keening noises that Sam had only brought from his lips. He doesn’t know that the devil is playing him. He doesn’t know he let the angels in. The last time he had dealt with them, it had been the end of all days. The Winchester doesn’t object the touch. Because his mind is just chanting, 

_ Sam, Sam, god this is real.  
              You’re alive. You’re alive. _

  The blood on his tongue isn’t a burning weight or a curse. Not that he even knows if it is. He’s ingested angel blood, not demon blood. But he doesn’t know, that burning translates into desire. The burning pool of desire that leaves a wake. It leaves a fire inside him burning, fingers digging into the other’s shoulders when touched. The keening noises that he hasn’t made since he was a demon. The noises are human. 

                           “Shh.”  
                                          Fingers press to his lips. Lips careful when they press down on to skin. The simple and easy bite, the simple way that he clings to Sam at the touch. The simple way that their bodies become entwined in rapid movements. The way that they fall within one another, just as they did the night before Sam had died. The way that it’s second nature for Dean to fall beside him. The way that his world is burning down from the inside out. 

                         “Don’t think. Just dream, Dean.”

                                 The world is an echoed black, when Dean falls under a slumber. Unaware as his body is lifted up by that of an archangel, almost too gentle. One could even say that it was Michael that would hold him with such care. But it’s not, it’s that of a morning star, that of an angel that did nothing but loathed Dean but will keep him in his gasp because he has his use. 

                                There’s no better protection than that of someone  
                                  that will give up everything for you. Even if they never  
                                                        know they’re playing with the devil.

##              **_Oh Lazarus, this is how your debts get paid._**  



	2. Chapter 2

   Let the flames burn down everything. Let them burn and smolder everything in their wake. The thorns that layer the crown of a horned king is all the remains of the wicked in Hell. The ones that defied the kings are slain, nothing but echoes of stories among the chambers. The echoes of what pertained, the torture that had left the floors bloody and stained. The familiar scent of blood that lingers among the halls, the way the scent clogs the nostrils. It suffocates anyone that was mortal, but it was music to the demons that linger. The way that it’s a sweet poison to them, a rare candy for the picking. 

        Fingers draped in blood, colored flesh that strikes a striking contrast to the freckled skin that is bare of any blood. The way that the droplets splash onto the floor, the way that the china becomes flecked with a deep crimson color. Some of the shades even purple, it’s a wonder how the color even ended up there. It’s not uncommon the way that blood lingers among the shades of white, in this room that holds the bathing chambers. It’s a normal sight to be seen, without the blood it’s almost eerie. 

  His fingers swipe across the blood in the room. A swallow leaving his throat. The reflex of a human movement really. The way that his eyes, golden amber watch the way that the maroon liquid falls in droplets, and small spatters into the tub below. It’s a sight to be seen, someone bathing in the blood of demons. It’s wretched and divine, but really he doesn’t care about what anyone thinks. 

A hum leaves his lips, fingers adjusting the crown of thorns on his head, a sharp sting when his finger is pricked by the thorns. A hiss escaping his lips, followed by a noise that isn’t exactly pain when he digs his fingers beneath the wound to echo the pain. Letting himself feel it, the way that the raw nerves ache beneath and the way that a hot flash of pain echoes across his body. Deepened red that paints a pretty picture across the flesh, the way that lips curve upwards into a smirk. It’s unsettling how much he loves pain, the way that his masochistic tendencies run alive under the skin.  

    He reaches a bloodstained finger to his lips. Biting down on his nail, tongue darting out slightly at the blood covering his skin. It’s not just from the wounds that he had pertained. It’s also from the blood dripping from the demon hanging from the ceiling that was skinned alive. He bites down on the nail almost seeming to think. The blood isn’t as rich as his own kin. It isn’t as rich as his brother’s that runs hot with corruption. Hot and warm from the mark that has created the sin that he is now. If it wasn’t for Sam, Dean would have been still screaming within the racks of hell. Instead he raised hell, let it breed and let it become a chip that was all his. 

    His tongue licks at the blood, laps at it. The taste in his mouth like a steady perfume. He knows his brother is watching him. He knows brother dearest is, and another curve of the lips is evident. Even if this blood isn’t the fair wine that he knows as Dean’s, he can still make it seem like a rare candy. The way that he laps at the skin, and lets the poison sink into his veins. The way that his movements are fluid at the touch, slipping clothing from his frame, what was left anyway exposing himself. 

The way that movements are almost fast paced but at the same time slow enough for wandering eyes. Letting his fingers slip over his length, touching it with blood stained fingers, and smearing blood. Most would be sickened by anything such as this, but he can hear the way his elder brother gasps. The way that his blood rushes under his skin. The way that the heat crawls up his spine, the way that the taint of red makes him ache and come alive. It’s tainted and wrong.

      But then again, he was never holy, to begin with.  

          Sam lets a gasp escape his lips. Fingers catching between his slit, the way that his body arches even though he’s standing. Pressing himself against the wall, feeling the way that his body moves, and comes alive. The way that blood stains everything on him. That primal feeling, the way that he lets himself come undone in the worst and most unholy ways. Not that a king on a bed of skulls is holy anyway, but his brother believes him to be a wicked saint. Fluids mixing with that of thickened blood, the way that it makes it smear and shine.

                     The way that he comes undone with a curve of the lips. The way that his fingers remain touching his lips, and the other hand smeared in cum and blood. The image not exactly something that choir boys would ever want to see. Most of them would want to unsee that, if you asked them about it, or you might have a few that were just as tainted as Sam. But that’s not really the point is it. He exhales a breath through lips, the weight of the breath fanning on the drying blood. The heat still snarled in his bones like a drum. 

   Fingers beckoning his brother forward. Blackened eyes catching upon that of amber, a story told just by the way they look at one another, past the blood that stains them both. 

                                                      “Watch the world burn below with me, Dean.”

             A single bloody wrist is raised to the demon’s mouth. Like a mother giving a child milk, and there’s more than a whisper of a scream. It is a deafing cry, when hell is raised by the most unholy saints and kings of hell.  



End file.
